


Atonement

by folkful



Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belts, Blood As Lube, Dacryphilia, Fantastic Racism, In like the worst way, M/M, Manipulation, Men Crying, Religious overtones, Spit As Lube, Victim Blaming, Violent Sex, Whipping, cos i know id need that tag myself, in joars mind at least, intense fantastic racism, kind of age difference i guess? its not a major thing but its there, no beta we die like men, or honestly just die at this point, rape as punishment, uuh, whooo boy this is nasty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28597911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkful/pseuds/folkful
Summary: After his travelling companion reveals a dark secret, the Dragonborn reveals his own taste for darkness.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Erandur
Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057886
Comments: 26
Kudos: 14





	Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely read the tags this time. It's generally very dark, in a different way than my other ones.
> 
> Well, this story beat me up and stole my lunch money. I got like a hundred words at most done a day before buckling down and churning out three thousand words in four hours today. I don't know why it was so fucking hard to write, but I'm glad I never have to look at it again. 
> 
> Also, since I got a comment on the subject this morning, I might as well state it here too: I'm 100% open to reader ideas! Though, fair warning, I can't always promise they'll end in something coherent or tangible.

Joar generally paid little mind to what happened in Dawnstar, namely because  _ nothing  _ usually happened in Dawnstar.

So when the people of the city began having strange, possibly-magical nightmares, the news spread like weeds in a garden. It was a relatively short journey from Windhelm, and he was in-between tedious tasks for the court, so the excuse to do something more interesting was a welcome one. Eventually, he paid the driver by the Windhelm stables, taking the day-long trip to the city.

They reached Dawnstar well past sunset. Windpeak Inn was near empty, and he retired quietly, body warm with dark mead and the prospect of adventure.

Speaking with the Jarl the next morning was fruitful, and he was glad for it, because the promised reward was high, and someone was already trying to get to the bottom of it, so his work would likely be straight-forward.

If only.

He met with his possible cooperator at the inn, surrounded by a few agitated citizens, asking for explanation. It was a priest of Mara, a soft-spoken elf, and once Joar had shooed away the commoners, he told the Nord what he knew in a hushed voice. The work of Vaermina, apparently.

Daedra were, in his admittedly none-too-experienced opinion, wretched beings. Any mortal who would willingly pledge themselves to Daedra, even more so. Dawnstar was a mostly honest city, under good rule, and aiding their troubles would be good for reputation. 

And so he found himself working with a priest, which was not unheard of for him (he was a Stormcloak after all, a true follower of Talos). A Dark Elf, the priest was, and this part was much rarer. He had met very few Dark Elves over the years whose company he enjoyed, and Erandur was nothing spectacular, but he was agreeable enough, utterly inoffensive, unless one truly abhorred Mara.

Joar generally found Mara agreeable enough, too, though he was certain he'd slighted her in some way by now. So he left the priest to his own thoughts during the journey to Nightcaller Temple, remarking neither on his race nor anything else. Every now and then Erandur would cut the silence, explaining what they were likely to find inside the temple, talking at length about the influence of Vaermina and what it might have done to the people of Dawnstar. 

At the time, Joar had been content knowing he was in the presence of one of the Dark Elves not involved with either the Tribunal or the Daedric Princes, one of the more trustworthy of their kind.

Looking back, it made him feel stupid.

There was a statue way beneath them, on the final floor beneath the circling, winding staircase, surrounded by a red, crackling field of some kind. Therein laid the Skull of Corruption, Erandur explained, the heart of Dawnstar's curse. Separating them from the lowest floor was a barrier at the mid-point of the stairs. To pass it, they would need to carry out some kind of heathen magic.

Joar wondered then, how a simple follower of Mara held this knowledge. A mild suspicion was already growing.

He pushed the issue, asked questions, and slowly, the priest's facade cracked. He was with Mara, now, but this excursion was simply him wanting to fix a problem he himself had caused. He'd set off the miasma, had not only dedicated himself to Vaermina, but betrayed the others who had done the same. And he'd dragged Joar into it. 

To say he was unhappy with this revelation was an understatement.

Erandur wanted to put him through something referred to as the Dreamstride in order to pass through the barrier. After a long, complicated search through a library and a laboratory, Joar easily dispatching of the cultists and the orcs, anger building steadily, he finally drank the wretched Torpor, the potion that would let him go through with it.

The Dreamstride, true to its name, let him watch the elf's memories, something that had happened many years ago, when even Erandur's name had been different. It was, in every way, unnatural. When it was finally over and done with, he was not where he had been before. Past the barrier, easily able to remove the soul gems keeping the seal intact.

Since Joar had called his bluff, Erandur had been mostly quiet. Joar himself was much the same, taking advantage of the stiff air, only shooting glares the priest's way occasionally as they made their way down to the Skull of Corruption.

They were stopped by two surviving heretics, the two the elf had spoken to within the Dreamstride. Joar readied his heavy axe, but not quite wanting to give away the extent of his malice toward Erandur, he waited for the two to advance before he went on the offence. Not before the two confirmed what he had already known, that the Dark Elf was a traitor. Both to Vaermina and to Joar.

Veren and Thorek were decent enough with magic, it seemed, but Joar was the Dragonborn. They were far out of their depth, and he left their bodies to cool outside the main chamber.

The ritual itself turned out to be complicated, taking more time than Joar had expected. Midway through, there was a voice trying to goad him into killing Erandur and taking the Skull for himself. Perhaps Vaermina knew what he felt. Perhaps not. Regardless, she underestimated his self control, and overestimated his opinion of Daedra.

When it was finished, the Skull destroyed, Erandur sighed, obviously weighed down by the ritual and the emotional toll of revisiting the temple.

"Forgive me if I don't appear relieved...this temple has taken its toll on me."

"That's alright." Finally letting his rage out, Joar waited for Erandur to turn, and then pressed a boot to the back of his knee, pushing hard. The elf lost his footing, trying to soften the impact with his hands but failing, hitting the short staircase leading back down to the floor. He hit several steps before landing below the stairs, slowly rolling onto his back. The hood of his cloak had fallen off his head, revealing his long, gray hair. Joar followed, descending the staircase in an unhurried manner, coming to a halt beside Erandur's heaving chest.

"Erandur, brother Casimir, whatever your name is, you're a filthy liar."

The elf laid still, breathing deeply, eyes closed. He was repeating something under his breath, hoarse mumbles that Joar did not care to decipher.

He tipped the point of his two-handed axe against Erandur's neck, just barely touching. The priest - no, he did not deserve that title - opened his eyes, looking up at the Nord, somehow seeming both resigned and afraid. Honestly, Joar paid little thought to Mara usually. Strange, the way the traitor had brought it out of him.

"Do you want to live, gray-skin?"

There was a beat of silence, a consideration of options, but Erandur was altogether calm.

"Yes," he finally stated, voice subdued. Joar sneered, tempted to simply let the axe fall, but instead kept in place, unmoving.

"Why? Gimme one reason not to do it. One reason."

The elf stared up at the ceiling, a small rivulet of blood trailing from his nostril and down his cheek.

"My atonement is not yet complete. Mara is not finished with me."

Erandur remained calm, defeated but steady. If he were honest with himself, Joar found it impressive. If he were yet more honest with himself, he wanted to break through that barrier. He deserved to hurt, just as the rest of the heathens.

It was decided, then.

He withdrew the blade of the axe, sheathing it.

"Stand. Hands against the wall. If you try anything, I'll kill you. Trust me on that."

The elf was tired out from the ritual, he knew, so he hoped in any case that he could not efficiently cast anything. But he did as he'd been told, standing up gingerly, wincing in pain once before steeling himself. Making his way over to the wall, clearly having trouble putting weight on his right leg, Erandur wiped the blood off his face and then braced his hands against the cold stone.

Before anything else, Joar made sure to confiscate his mace. He was fairly certain he would not be attacked before stripping the liar priest, but he would not take the risk of having to put him down. 

Unlike in the Gray Quarter, there really was no risk of being interrupted. They'd already cleared the temple of the sleepers, and Dawnstar was far, much too far for the elf to manage any kind of escape. Not until Joar was done. And there were so, so many options.

Getting rid of those ugly yellow robes, first of all. Not giving Erandur any warning, or letting him know what was to happen - he was not entirely sure of it yet, himself - he reached around to unclasp the cloak and pull it off. The traitor moved then, slightly confused, but Joar pushed on the back of his neck until his cheek was flush against the wall.

"What did I  _ just _ tell you? Stay still."

There was an attempted nod, and the Nord let go, discarding the cloak. Then, he removed the length of rope acting as a belt, and the meager bag containing only torches and the heathen book Joar had found for him in the library. To his credit, Erandur said nothing, and did not try to turn around again. 

Untying the rope made the robe fall open only a little, and Joar began working the garment off the elf, forcing one hand off the wall at a time to get them out of the loose sleeves. His breathing came faster now, and there was worry in his eyes, but neither of them mentioned it. Joar wondered if this was simply for safety, to stay alive, or if the traitor was accepting his punishment. Regardless, he trailed a hand down Erandur's spine.

The Dark Elf was older than Revyn Sadri, he would guess, but he was of similar build. Thin, long-legged, with a sharp face and slim hands. His body was mostly unscarred, but the pained leg was swollen around the knee, and he could see developing marks from the stone stairs on his shoulders and back. 

When he took out a small knife from his belt, cutting off Erandur's underthings, the elf gave him a look of horror, taking his hands off the wall.

"Dragonborn, wha-"

Joar pointed the knife at the traitor's spine, not digging in, but threatening it. Erandur made a small noise before catching himself.

"Stay. Still. I'm not finished with you."

"Finished with  _ what? _ "

"I told you. You're a filthy liar, and you need to suffer for it."

The elf drew a deep breath, the exhale shaky, and then reassumed the position he'd been ordered into. The message was clear. Joar had gravely underestimated the extent of Erandur's guilt. He was accepting this.

He wasn't sure whether this made things more interesting or less interesting. What he did know, was that he would take full advantage of it. The traitor did not fully understand what he had done by yielding to the punishment, and Joar intended to show him.

He had nothing more effective at hand, so he removed his own belt - a long, thick piece of leather - looping it around his hand once to keep his grip sturdy. This, at least, was familiar to him. This, he had done, both as Stormblade and during his time working with the Windhelm guard, many years ago. He adjusted the hold on the improvised strap, raising it and drawing his arm back before delivering the first strike without any warning.

The sound it made against Erandur's back was tremendous, echoing off the high walls, the blow crossing a developing bruise just under his shoulder-blades. The elf gasped, but managed to hold himself steady. Wordlessly, Joar struck him once more. The leather left wide, red welts against the gray flesh. The belt never hit the same place twice in a row. The Nord knew that it would keep the traitor on his toes, not allow him a moment of respite. 

There was a space one could be pushed into, where the pain was still great but the mind could go calm, because it knew what was happening. Joar knew how to keep a person away from that space, and Erandur surely did not deserve the mercy of it.

The elf was struggling to stay still, nearly hyperventilating, arms and shoulders quaking. Joar left enough time in-between every lash to watch the marks bloom, the pale turn into red, and the red turn deeper, turn purple.

Eventually, a particularly harsh strike crossed the others on the top of Erandur's thighs, a place Joar had always enjoyed marring, and the elf gave a choked-off noise, the first he'd let slip, trying to stay stoic but clearly becoming overwhelmed with the pain. The Nord had strong arms, accustomed to swinging heavy weapons, and he swung the strap with the same force, a weapon in its own right.

The cold-toned gray of the elf's skin had turned raw, red, bruised. Hearing that first, soft sound, Joar doubled down, invigorated. The lash came down faster, impossibly harder, tearing more sounds of pain from Erandur. He'd been bracing himself on his wiry arms, but they appeared to give out from under him during what was less a punishment and more an outright attack. He rested his forehead against the cool stone, but took one frenzied step back when his new position let the belt hit not only his back, but the backs of his arms as well.

Joar ceased his onslaught for a bit, giving his own arm a break. Erandur backed away further, trying to cover himself. The Nord did not move.

"Please…", the traitor mumbled, gray hair sticking to the sides of his face, to the hollows of his cheeks. "Wait."

"I'm doing nothing to you that you did not bring on yourself." Joar's words were devoid of any sympathy.

"I - I know that, I know, just…give me a moment, please."

He studied the elf for a moment, the way his red eyes shone, the trembling of his body. Perhaps he was ready to move forward - the whipping had thrown him into full arousal, his thick trousers causing him more discomfort than it was worth. Making a quick decision, he rolled his shoulder a few times, stiff after the harsh blows he'd delivered.

"Come here."

Erandur did so, hesitant and defeated, but not protesting.

"Turn around and kneel on the floor."

He gave Joar a wary look, now, turning around with about as much enthusiasm as a thief being sent to the headsman. It was a fitting image, in a way, although the end result would not be death. He enjoyed the thought, the knowledge that he was in every way holding a life in his hands.

"What...are you going to do?"

"You wanted a break from the lashing, did you not?"

"Y-yes."

"I'm giving it to you. But you surely cannot expect your punishment to be over." He took a breath. "Now, on all fours."

This was something, it seemed, the traitor had not expected. He moved gingerly, wincing every time his battered back was stretched, red-faced with the shame of such an exposed position. The pressure of the floor against his injured knee must be greatly painful, but it was nothing he hadn't earned.

The Nord took a moment to appreciate the marks he had left, the long stripes covering everything between the elf's shoulder-blades and the backs of his knees. There was an alluring brutality to them, the same way there was in the bleeding, torn scabs he'd left on Revyn Sadri's wrists. He had always known he liked inflicting pain, but it was best like this, on show for him to watch and touch as he pleased without the judgement of his fellow Nords.

Maybe that was all that Dark Elves were good for. Being hurt, fucked, put in their place.

Looking at the creature in front of him, shaking but altogether obedient, his flesh painted by leather in shades of red, blue, and purple, Joar could come to no other conclusion. And how lucky he was for his station, the way he could explore this fact as he wished, and none of them could even bend a hair on his head in return. He was all-powerful, and perhaps it had taken this to make him realise just how far that power went. How untouchable he was.

He knelt down behind Erandur, watching him try and adjust his posture to hide the view of his soft, gray cock, his balls. He let him shield himself entirely before speaking.

"Pleasant as that was to watch, you'll need to spread your legs for this part."

The elf looked at him over his shoulder, eyes widening in shock.

"What are - whatever you want to do, I...this, I can't-"

"Spread your legs," Joar snapped, raising the belt he still held, snapping it down against the elf's lower back, hearing a satisfying yelp in response. The elf did as he had been told, now, hair hanging down almost to the floor, refusing to look back. 

"You may convince everyone else, make them think you're simply an unassuming old priest, but no. I see right through you. You've done worse things than what I'm about to do to you. You've killed, haven't you?"

There was a dry sniffle, and a moment of quiet, and then the traitor nodded shakily.

"Then you have no ground to stand on. Don't move."

Just like the first time in the Gray Quarter, Joar had no oil. But he wasn't going to waste his money, his resources, on a miserable elf who had done nothing but lie to him. So he spat on his fingers once, twice, three times. Erandur did not deserve an easy, painless fuck. Spit was all he would get.

He nudged the traitor's knees further apart, pulling one of his swollen ass-cheeks to the side, watching his hole flutter and hearing little sounds of pain from the harsh touch to the tender skin. He pinched lightly at the heated flesh in his hand, between his thumb and his forefinger, listening to the choked whines coming from the shamed elf. He did not warn him before lining his first finger up with the tight little entrance, beginning to push in, his grip on Erandur's buttock hardening when the traitor began trying to move himself off his finger.

The penetration was almost dry, but Joar continued, the second finger going in alongside the first. The burn must be near unbearable, he thought, and this only made him stab them in harder, finally getting a scream.

"Dragonborn, please!"

"Please what?" Joar's voice was calm, but his fingers were ruthless.

"Stop, please, I - I'll take the, the lashing, I just...not this, please."

"Who do you think you are?", Joar sneered. "I obliged you once, but no. You don't get to choose how I punish you. You're taking my cock."

The elf gave a pathetic whine, a long, devastated one. The Nord's third finger breached the rim of his asshole, and Erandur's head and shoulders dropped, his long hair trailing across the stone, position only succeeding in pushing his ass up, giving Joar easy access. He could hear labored breaths from behind the traitor's arms.

So hard it hurt, he withdrew his fingers, unlacing his trousers and pulling them down, along with his underthings. Fully armored, taking everything off would be a hassle. Putting it back on afterwards, even more so. So he settled with that, spitting on his palm and taking his cock in hand, not to make it easier on the elf, but to make sure he himself did not get pinched while inside. It was a possibility, with how tense and in pain Erandur was.

Entering the traitor was a very slow process, one that frustrated Joar seemingly endlessly. Erandur was unable to relax with the strain on his battered body, and the Nord was unwilling to aid him in any way, and so he settled on letting it take its time. It seemed the elf had an easier time taking the pain of the beating than this, this utter humiliation, this helplessness. By the time Joar was halfway into him, dragging his prick back out to thrust further, Erandur was sobbing quietly.

"Are you truly Mara's, or was that another one of your lies?"

The elf nodded desperately. "I am, I wasn't...wasn't lying."

"I have to wonder," said Joar, jabbing in harshly, "if Mara loves you so, why She allows this to pain you."

"This...it isn't Hers. Not like th-this."

There was true suffering in the traitor's voice, tears on his bony face. Joar gripped a handful of his thick, coarse hair, pulling him up to kneel once more, the Nord's large cock almost entirely buried inside him. He wrapped an arm around the elf's soft middle, keeping him steady.

"The violation isn't Mara's, no, but  _ you  _ are." He let that simmer for a moment, rolling his hips harshly. "Perhaps I am your atonement."

The thought of that power surged through him, stronger than any mead. He had never been hooked on skooma, but if this was how it felt, he could understand the caravan merchants from Elsweyr, their addled minds, their ruined teeth. If skooma felt like power, like divinity, it was only fair that it consumed their minds. He did not need the false kind, though. He had the real thing right here, right in front of him.

Mara was a being of love. Was it not only fitting, then, that he was taking an act of love from this elf, crushing it up, warping it into something filled with anger and retribution? 

Had Mara been his patron, Joar himself would have needed quite a bit of atonement after that thought. But she was not, and she surely had worse to deal with, so he let the idea sit in his mind.

Since his last statement, the elf had gone quiet, aside from involuntary whimpering. Joar was going inside harshly, drilling in and out full-force, almost hoping he would ruin something inside of the lying traitor. Erandur was trying to take his weight off his swollen knee, but the only other option was to brace against the Nord's unrelenting metal armor, putting pressure on the bruises on his back. Joar was finally able to fuck him in earnest, either because he'd finally spread the elf enough, or because there was a small amount of blood easing the way. He took full advantage of it either way, one hand still twisting Erandur's long locks, holding his head back against his own shoulder, nipping at his graceful neck. His thrusts were ravenous, harsh, as fast as he could go. 

He felt his peak getting closer and closer, and once he began passing through the crashing waves of it, thrown into them head-first, he doubled over, the movements of his body forcing the elf to do the same. He sheathed himself fully, simply grinding into him as deep as he would go, panting and heaving as he shot thick streams of come far into the traitor's warm body. When he had rode out the high, he pulled back, watching his large prick slide slowly out of Erandur's stretched hole, his previous thoughts confirmed seeing a thin smearing of blood on his cock, mixing with his seed to make an ill-fittingly sweet-looking rosy colour. He wiped it on the inside of his dark tunic, sticking out only a little from underneath his armor.

As soon as he let go of Erandur, the elf collapsed onto the stone, sniffling, but his mind seemed absent. Blood-streaked come dribbled from his still distended hole. Joar gathered himself, redressing and putting his long hair in a braid for the journey back to Dawnstar. 

In the time it took him to entirely get himself ready to travel, all Erandur had managed was to pull the robe around his body, wrapping it around himself like a blanket with sleeves. He was handling the cold well, for a Dark Elf, but even Joar would have felt it, were he nude in this hall. He stood over the traitor's form, crossing his arms.

"Where will you be staying, now?", he asked, tone disinterested. The elf sniffled, once, before answering, eyes still on the floor.

"H-here. In the...the room with the shrine I built. I will finish the...the - my atonement here."

The word  _ 'atonement' _ was said differently, now, as though the thought of it hurt deeply. Maybe he had latched on to Joar's last statement, the idea he was a part of Erandur's repentance, that Mara had wanted him to suffer this pain.

"I'll keep that in mind," said the Nord, "in case I return here."

The elf shivered, seeming to catch himself before he was able to shake his head. Joar continued.

"I will speak with the Jarl, let him know we ended the curse. Any money he's put aside for you will be compensation for your betrayals."

He left the chamber, boots thudding against the floor, stepping on the discarded yellow cloak once, leaving a dark, dirty stain on the even fabric. It felt symbolic, in some way.


End file.
